


Amethyst Bones & Porcelain Flesh

by Terra_Reiin



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 08:59:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18407369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terra_Reiin/pseuds/Terra_Reiin
Summary: The Aristocrat of Evil, The Queen's Watchdog. [The devil's master] some whisper.The Daredevil, The Stuntman. [ The man who Death hates] they holler.Violet eyes, the exact same shade.Ciel Phantomhive, your humble servant...has been looking for you.





	Amethyst Bones & Porcelain Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, sorry for the delay guys, I should be working on 'Karma is a Bitch' but I had to get this out. Plus, omg guys, you will not believe how thorougly I have managed to convince myself that Skull is Ben Ten, ngl. Gosh. XDDD

 

**_If you stick to a "lie", It will eventually become the "truth"._ **

_\---_

 

**The Beginning**

 

A scuffed stainless steel spoon clinks against the side of the army green PVC mug and Skull jerks his shoulder forward, disguising the way the sound makes him shudder, flashes of blue wedge westwood china and darjeeling tea stirred with silver flashing behind his eyelids.

 

The carnie in front of him pauses infinitesimally but says nothing, shuffling him to the side to continue serving out gruel. Jerky movements in a wild-eyed, closed off ‘runaway’? He had better things to do than look into another druggie. He’d either make it, or he wouldn’t, simple as that.

 

Later, seeing the the kid climb the ranks, something like murder, desperation and adrenaline in a heady cocktail flooding his eyes as he performed death-defying stunts for an increasingly appreciative crowd, he may regret his decision.

 

For now?

 

Skull shuffles wordlessly, shoveling hot gruel in his mouth, the first hot meal in months. He doesn’t notice the carnie’s disapproving stare as he crunches hard on the words trying to escape, of the phantom flavor of buttery _scones_ and flaky _mille feuille_ that dance in tandem with the blandness of the gruel, fleeting over his tongue.

 

He’s a circus boy now, not a rich un. No rich baby’d be out on the street like he was. He just had to accept it.

\---

 

**Time**

 

Sometimes Skull thinks he belongs in the wrong time.  
  
The rumbling of cars and bright lights of the interstate irritate him and his apparent age does him no favours, forcing him to ‘hang out’ with similarly fresh-faced companions sends revulsion roiling through his person. They’re mannerisms, their casual disregard for personal space, their _constant butchering of the english language_ is utterly revolting to him.

 

He can barely stand to walk on the street amongst the unwashed masses and any flash of skin above knee high sends him scurrying away, face crimson, to the accompanying laughter of whatever wretches see fit to grace his company.

 

“Prude.” Some called him.

 

_'Cretins'_ “Jerks.” He fired back.

 

More often than not, his wit earns him beatings, not helped at all by the fact that even sitting there in the dirt, blood dribbling down his chin, it is more than apparent nobility is in his bones, down from the high of his delicate cheekbones to the perfected, mocking sneer as he looks up at them standing over him.

 

A rich boy, elite baby, dragged down and smeared in the dirt like the rest of them.

 

“Baby golden boy no one wants anymore!” his latest dime a dozen giant of a bully mocks, delighting in the incongruous feeling of being able to lord over someone else.

 

And worst is that Skull can’t even disprove it, mansions and finery and _servants_ always, _always_ in the back of his brain floating between thoughts and dreams, haunting his waking memories. Yet here he is, with **_scum._ **

 

Still, it doesn’t mean he has to take what they have to give lying down. The lancing pain in his chest is not one he is willing to bear.

 

Skull glares at him, irises glowing lividly in his pale face.

 

“Go on then, make it **_hurt._ ** Carve the pain of my life into my **soul**.”  he hissed, straining against his captor. The last thing he sees is the gratifying flash  of fear behind beastly anger as fists rain down.

 

The next time he wakes, it is in a hospital.

 

\---

**Civilian**

 

For all that he was a civilian, Skull had a rather dismal view of what most considered justice. When Lal had attempted to impress on him the Mafia’s view on morals or lack thereof, he’d been surprisingly eloquent in summing it up as

 

**‘ _Justice in this world is just a bunch of principles, made by those with power to suit themselves.’_ **

  
The bitter tone rife with the suffering of a hands on experience led Lal to go easier on him for a while.

 

\---

**“Saved”**

Collonello pulls him out of the way of a hail of bullets and Skull would be grateful, really, he would, if the blond had not taken the time to lecture him at the same time, bemoaning his uselessness and showing off his marksmanship like a prize dog at a blue ribbon ceremony.

 

It is when he pokes at his pride as a Stuntman, that Skull rears up in offense, for all his faults, it is the one thing none of them may rival him in and he will take no slight to his skill.

 

**“I am arrogant, yes”** He puffs from beside the soldier under the cover of a heavy bullet ridden table. **“but not so much that I'd irresponsibly save someone just to** **_brag_ ** **about it.”**

 

He runs into the hail of steel before his blue-eyed companion can respond. Gunshots ring out following his position before being suddenly silenced, to be replace by groans and the roaring of an engine.

 

\---

**Image**

 

Skull struggles with his image of Reborn. For one, there is the fear borne of years upon years of abuse. Then is the impotent, nearly all-consuming rage that fills his being at the humiliation. The most puzzling of all however is the twisted, mixed sense of pity and derision that suffuses him when he is faced with yet another one of Reborn’s ridiculous feats, of the arrogance that overflows out of his laughably tiny form.

 

**_Is there truly any human who is not arrogant?_ **

 

But better still is when Reborn picks up on his odd misplaced sense of pity and disgust, the shots fired in his direction, but not landing, only to be stopped dead as Skull laughs at him, open and condescending when he stares at what Reborn has done to himself, to how the hitman had mutilated his own memories for the sake of peace with his situation.

 

**_“I prefer to have my nightmares with open eyes.”_ **

 

Skull leaves him at the door, staring at his small, leather clad back.

\---

 

**Funeral**

 

After Luce’s death...Skull walks away from the casket and barely gets a few steps away when his grief sloughs off him like water off a duck's back. He straightens in surprise, the heavy pull of his anguish disappearing without a trace. Skull can feel the surprise and heat of his fellow Elements rage as they sense the change in their bondmate and Skull books it out of there before he makes even more of a spectacle at the funeral of one of the most beloved Donna’s of the Cosa Nostra.

 

**_Moping around with sadness and sorrow... what will come of it? Even dead people can do that. However, I'll live and stand on my own two legs. If we are going to die one day, wouldn't it be better to have no regrets?_ **

  


You can only disgrace the dead so much.

 

**_\---_ **

**Awakening**

 

Byakuran shreds him to pieces, something something about baby Vongola saving the future-

 

And suddenly Skull is F

                                       A

                                              L

                                                     L

                                                           I

                                                                N

                                                                      G.

 

Everything is pitch black as the wind howls in his ears on the way down. He opens his mouth to scream, cry, anything, but nothing emerges. Whispers begin to phase in and out of the icy gale and Skull, Ciel, Skull/Ciel, Skulliel- _What? What? What?_ \- pieces the mocking, deferential voice together.

 

_Always skillfully manipulate your pieces, that's how you survive._

 

Something, something, someone so familiar.

 

_Use me and Madame Red, any piece within your reach._

 

Even without turning around, Skull can tell the ground is coming up fast. And to hit it at these speeds, metaphysical or not, Skull is sure he will not survive it. Quickly, he needs to piece everything together quickly-!

 

_Even if the bodies of your pawns pile up in front of your throne._

 

Almost-!

 

_Because if the king falls -_

 

Violet eyes snap open, a contract reawakened blazing bright amethyst.

  


_this game is over._

 

#  _“SEBASTIAN!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Side note, might actually add a pairing this time, because ahem, I am kinda partial to aged up Ciel and Sebastian??? Gonna see how it goes~


End file.
